


The Last Man Standing

by LaughtersMelody



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Blood and Injury, Crew as Family, Firefighters, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, Roy POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughtersMelody/pseuds/LaughtersMelody
Summary: In the end, it was always the unknown variables at a fire that were the most dangerous. They trained hard and did their best to minimize the risks, but ultimately, they couldn't prepare for something they had no way to predict. When a routine call goes horribly wrong, the crew of Station 51 is reminded of that in the most difficult way. A story in three parts. Complete.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big thank-you to my fabulous beta, LaramieLady51, AKA Darth Mom, who is the best beta in this galaxy or any other. Her medical knowledge was an incredible help with this fic, and it wouldn't be the same without her. Any errors are mine alone.
> 
> Warning: I describe some fairly serious traumatic injuries in this fic. I tried my best not to be particularly graphic, but if you're sensitive to this sort of subject matter, please read with care. Thank you.
> 
> As always, I also thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

****

** The Last Man Standing  **

Chapter 1

Fireman Paramedic Roy DeSoto found himself lying on his back in the dirt, staring up into the night sky.

He hadn't been looking at the sky just a minute ago. He couldn't actually remember what he'd been doing, but he was sure that it hadn't included any stargazing. Not that you could really stargaze much in LA anyway, though, right now, they were far enough outside of the city limits that a few bright stars could be seen peeking through the haze.

Roy blinked, his sluggish brain struggling to put the fragmented pieces of memory back into a cohesive whole, and he turned his head, catching sight of the engine a few feet away. The hose bed loomed above him, a single, nozzle-less hose trailing limply to the ground, the end just out of his reach.

A run…they'd been on a run.

The first call they'd gotten had been for a woman down, but it had turned out to be a false alarm. The woman in question had actually been face-down on the floor, trying to get to a battery that had rolled under the couch - a battery from her hearing aid. The call had come from a neighbor who'd dropped by to check on her. The neighbor had been able to see the elderly woman's position from the front window, and jumped to some understandable conclusions when she hadn't reacted to any of his shouts or knocks.

After assuring the embarrassed woman that they were just glad she was alright, both the squad and the engine had started back to the station, hoping to finish the dinner that had been interrupted when the call had come through.

They hadn't made it far, though, because they'd gotten another call just a few minutes later, this time for a structure fire. It was farther out than most of their calls usually were, but the woman's house had been on the edge of their district anyway, and they happened to be the closest units available for a response.

The property was an old, single-story farmhouse that had long-since been abandoned. A passerby had seen the flames and found a phone to call it in, but by the time Station 51 arrived on the scene, the porch had already been fully involved, the aged, weathered wood quick to ignite. Cap had immediately ordered two lines, Chet and Marco on one and he and Johnny on the other.

Roy blinked again, his head giving a dull throb. He brought up a hand to rub at his forehead, but his questing fingers found his helmet instead. His helmet. He was wearing his helmet…of course he was. He remembered shrugging into his turnout, and Johnny had been just a few seconds behind him, so he'd run to the back of the engine to pull down their hose, and then…

An explosion. There'd been an explosion.

Roy's eyes widened and he struggled to sit up. The muscles in his back throbbed, and his stomach made sure that he knew how it felt about the change in position, but he fought the pain and nausea back down and kept going, pushing himself to his feet. He almost lost his balance and then straightened up slowly, cold horror curling in his gut and skirting down his spine as he took in the sight in front of him.

The house - what was left of it - was completely engulfed now, the explosion having fanned the flames, and in the light of the fire, Roy could make out five, prone forms.

None of them were moving.

The nausea came back, even stronger this time, but without any conscious thought, Roy found himself stumbling towards the front of the engine. He pulled off the gloves he wore and opened the driver's side door, struggling up onto the running board and reaching for the microphone in the cab.

"LA." His voice cracked so badly that he had to repeat, and even then it was so hoarse that he barely recognized it as his own. "LA, Station 51. There's been an explosion at our location. Code I times six. I am the only one currently ambulatory. We need immediate assistance. Request at least one additional engine, two squads, and three ambulances."

Roy swallowed hard as the cool, ever-professional tones of Sam Lanier's voice carried over the radio. They had never been more welcome. "10-4, 51."

There was a pause, and Roy knew the dispatcher was probably busy relaying the news up the chain of command. In reality, the wait was probably less than half a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

"51, Battalion requests that you keep them apprised of any developments. Also, be advised, units en-route to your location have an ETA of approximately fifteen minutes."

 _Fifteen minutes_. So much could happen in fifteen minutes. Lives could be lost in less than that. Maybe they had been already.

Roy's fingers tightened on the microphone hard enough that he felt the case creak from the pressure. "10-4, LA."

His hand was trembling a little as he replaced the mic in the cab, and he curled his fingers into fist, unsure if the shaking was a reaction to the sheer enormity of what had happened, or if it had something to do with the pounding in his head.

He didn't have time for either. Steeling himself, Roy lowered his body out of the cab, careful to avoid the broken glass littering the seat from the shattered windows. He stumbled back down the length of the engine, pausing at the gauges to shut off the water that was still flowing through the charged line that Marco and Chet had been using. Then he turned and started for the squad, locking his knees and managing something like an unsteady jog until he reached the rear compartments. He pulled out the trauma box and Biophone, the muscles in his back shrieking anew at the additional weight he was asking them to carry.

He ignored that the way he was ignoring everything else, and managed another unsteady jog over to the closest victim. The victim. It was probably better to think of them that way, better to distance himself and pretend that this was just like any other rescue. It wasn't, though, and seeing the stenciled "STOKER" on the tan coat made his nausea return full-force. Mike had obviously been hit by the blast from behind because he was lying face-down, both arms stretched out above his head and bent at the elbow. The back of his coat was stained through with red in more than a few places, and dark pieces of some sort of shrapnel - wood or metal, maybe - were sticking out of the wounds, casting strange shadows in the firelight. How deep had that shrapnel gone? If any of it had reached Mike's vital organs…

Training took over once more, and Roy found himself reaching for the engineer's neck, searching for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the steady thumping against his fingers.

"Mike?" he tried. Then more loudly, "Mike?"

Nothing.

"Mike!" With the engineer in the wrong position to try a sternal rub, Roy pinched Mike's earlobe instead. "Mike, can you hear me?"

There was still no response, not even to the pain.

Worried, Roy searched for Mike's pulse once more. The constant rhythm was just as reassuring as it had been the first time. 97 was fast, but considering blood loss Roy could see, he wasn't surprised that his pulse was elevated, and it wasn't yet in the danger zone. Unfortunately, given the way Mike was lying on the ground, Roy didn't think that his stethoscope would be able to pick up enough breath sounds to be useful, so he bent down by Mike's nose and mouth instead, listening to his breathing that way. He didn't hear any gasping or wheezing, and a quick count told Roy that his respirations were sitting at about 20. That was a slower than Roy would have expected, but that might have been due, again, to Mike's position on his stomach.

Roy didn't want to chance moving him at all, though, not even to remove the helmet Mike still wore. It was too risky with the shrapnel in his back. That meant the turnout would have to stay on for now too, and knowing that he would never be able to get a blood pressure through the coat, Roy reached for the scissors in his belt kit and started cutting the sleeve on the arm he was closest to, slicing it apart from wrist to shoulder, grimacing as the blades chewed through the thick material. When he had Mike's arm free, he reached for the BP cuff and carefully wrapped it around the engineer's bicep.

His own heart was pounding as he pumped up the cuff, and it didn't slow until he was sure that the numbers he'd gotten matched the relatively positive data he had on Mike's pulse and respirations: 112/73. He wasn't in good shape by any means, and his condition would undoubtedly deteriorate the longer he had to wait for treatment, but for now, and he was fairly stable.

He could wait a few minutes for more in-depth care…but maybe some of the others couldn't.

Maybe Johnny couldn't.

Roy's stomach lurched yet again. These men were all his friends, some of the best he'd ever had, and the thought of losing any of them filled him with dread. But, he couldn't deny that there was part of him that was Johnny's partner first and foremost, and it was screaming at him to look at the younger man next. He wouldn't, though, because Cap was closer, and Roy knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he'd been conscious to do it, Johnny would have told him to check on the Cap first.

Grabbing a pad of paper and an extra pen from the Biophone, Roy scribbled down Mike's numbers, packed some gauze around the worst of the wounds on the engineer's back, then closed up the Biophone's case along with the trauma box and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

He didn't have to go far - Cap was just a few feet away.

He was lying face-up, and his helmet must have been knocked off by the blast, because it was nowhere to be seen. Like Stoker, he had been wounded by the shrapnel the explosion had created. A long piece of wood, almost resembling a stake, had been driven through his right shoulder, and another, smaller piece was imbedded in his left thigh. Shallow cuts peppered most of his face and neck.

Nothing seemed to have hit him near any of his vital organs, and Roy might have called him lucky except that he could see a small pool of blood already seeping out from behind the Captain's shoulder. A quick glance at his thigh showed that the material of his pants leg was already soaked through as well. He was definitely bleeding more heavily than Mike had been, and Roy knew that Cap would go downhill fast if he didn't get a handle on it.

Reaching for the trauma box again, Roy grabbed the gauze, bandages, and Kerlix, tearing open the packaging and tossing it aside. He worked on the shoulder first. He was careful to keep the wood firmly in place while still packing as much gauze around it as he could. Then, he gently rolled Cap to the left so that the injury was a few inches off the ground and started winding some bandages and Kerlix around the back of the shoulder and over the top of the packed wound. He made the bandages as tight as he could without cutting off blood flow to the arm. The leg was next. It was easier to wrap, though Roy was dismayed to see a few spots of red showing through the white material as soon as he was done.

"Cap? Cap, can you hear me? Hank? Come on, Hank, open your eyes."

Given that Cap hadn't responded to anything he'd done so far, Roy wasn't really expecting an answer, but it was still a disappointment when there wasn't one. He tried a sternal rub for good measure, but when the result was the same, he pressed bloodied fingers to Cap's throat and counted the beats. He grimaced at what he found.

Cap's pulse was fast, 116, and a quick check of his respirations showed that they were fast as well, at 32. After cutting through the sleeve of his turnout on his uninjured arm, Roy found that his systolic and diastolic pressures told the same unhappy story at 106/68, though they hadn't reached a critical level yet, and for the moment, he was as stable as Roy could make him. Knowing that he had no choice, Roy wrote down Cap's numbers, made a brief though fruitless search for the handy talkie Cap had been holding, then packed up again and staggered away.

He still had three other victims to triage.

Chet and Marco had already been manning a hose, and they were the farthest from where Roy had started out by the engine. But Johnny…Johnny was the closest to him now. He must have just come around the squad and been making a bee-line for Cap when the explosion happened.

Taking a few quick steps, Roy dropped to his knees beside his partner.

His first impression was red. Too much red.

His vision wavered for a moment, and Roy blinked, forcing himself to focus. Like Cap, cuts were peppered over John's face and neck, but his helmet was still in place, for all the good it had done - something had struck his left temple, and a long trail of blood marked a path from his hairline to his jaw. There were a number of other cuts scattered over his torso as well, and even if the wounds were relatively small, whatever had hit him had been sharp enough to slice right through his turnout. Some of the wounds, however, Roy didn't have to wonder about what had hit him because the fragments of wood and metal were still embedded.

Roy swallowed hard and continued his examination.

He froze, his gaze halting on the right side of Johnny's torso, just below his rib cage. A large, jagged piece of metal protruded from his partner's abdomen, jutting a couple inches into the air. The question was, just how deep did it go?

Roy swallowed again, feeling like all the moisture in his mouth had fled, but his hands were already moving, reaching for Johnny's throat to check his pulse. For one terrifying moment, he didn't feel anything at all. But then…there it was. Weak, fast, and thready, but _there_.

The sense of relief was so strong that Roy's vision wavered a second time. Shaking himself, Roy gently removed Johnny's helmet, careful to support his neck with one hand, and then he dragged the trauma box a little closer and opened it, pulling out the bandages, gauze, and Kerlix again. There wasn't a lot - he wasn't going to run out while working on Johnny, but he hoped that no one else was bleeding this badly because there wouldn't be much left. A single squad just wasn't equipped to handle this much trauma alone.

He started packing gauze around the large metal shard, walking that delicate balance between too much pressure and not enough.

"Johnny?" he tried, his voice thick. "Johnny, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Not wanting to touch his partner's bloodied chest, Roy gave his earlobe a small pinch. There was no reaction to that either.

Roy drew a shaky breath and kept working, but when he heard a groan, his eyes darted Johnny's face. A small part of him hoped that his partner was waking up, while the rest of him prayed that he wasn't - an injury like his would be agony.

The groan came again, but Johnny's features remained slack, and Roy finally realized that the sound was coming from somewhere behind him. He turned, glancing quickly at Mike and Cap, but they seemed to be as still as ever, so he looked the other way, finding Chet and Marco. The blazing fire behind them cast their silhouettes in sharp relief, and it was easy to see that one of them was moving now, though he couldn't tell who it was.

His question was answered when the figure struggled into a sitting position, and on the helmetless head, he could make out curly hair.

"Chet?" Roy called.

There was silence for a moment.

"R-Roy? What…?" Chet stopped again, realization coloring his voice. "The house blew."

"Yeah. Help's on the way, but it will be a few minutes yet."

Just how long, Roy couldn't say. Maybe it was better that he didn't know.

Chet pushed himself up a little more and looked around, obviously catching sight of the others, and though it was hard to be sure, Roy thought he saw him pale.

"How bad?" he asked softly.

Roy knew what Chet was really asking.

"Mike's not great, but he seems stable. Cap is worse off…he's lost a lot of blood. Johnny too…he's pretty cut up, and he's got a serious abdominal wound." He forced himself to say that last part matter-of-factly and turned back to Johnny, continuing to pack the wound as he talked. "I haven't had a chance to look at you or Marco. Can you give me a rundown?"

Chet clearly wasn't tracking very well. "Huh?"

"Chet, I need to know how you're doing. Where are you hurt?"

"Oh. I…"

There was another pause, and Roy assumed he was doing a mental self-assessment.

"Um…my head…my head hurts real bad. Cuts…bleeding some. My ribs…my ribs hurt too, and…I…ahh! Something's wrong with my right ankle."

"Your ribs," Roy repeated. "Any trouble breathing?"

"No…not really, 'long as I don't breathe too deep. I, uh…I don't think there's anything that can't wait."

"You're sure? Because if you're not, I need to know."

"Yeah," Chet murmured, then more firmly, "yeah, I'm sure. I'll…I'll look at Marco."

"Okay. Let me know what you find."

Roy picked up a roll of bandages, trying to decide how to wrap them around his partner without jostling the wound. Judging by its position and all the blood, Roy guessed that the metal piece had probably hit his liver, and he didn't want to risk making things any worse than they already were.

"Hey, Roy?" Chet called. "Marco's got a broken nose, I think…his face and mouth are all bloody. Got some pretty bad cuts…and, aw, man… There's something big stuck in 'im, right in his hip."

"Which hip?" Roy demanded, starting to unwind the length of bandages in his hand.

"Um…left, I think…yeah, left."

"Is it bleeding badly?"

"Some, yeah, but…not too bad."

Roy still didn't like the sound of that - if that piece of shrapnel had actually hit Marco a little bit _above_ his hip, it might have nicked his bowel.

"Is his abdomen rigid around the wound?"

"N-no."

"How about his pulse and respirations?"

"They're okay. A little fast, but pretty strong."

Roy considered the bandage for a moment longer, then cut off a strip and started making it an extra layer of packing around gauze he'd already used on Johnny. Hopefully, that would guarantee that the piece of metal didn't shift at all.

"Chet," he said at the same time, "see if you can wake Marco up. Just be careful - don't shake him."

"Okay," Chet agreed. "Marco! Hey, Marco, c'mon pal, up an' at 'em. Marco!" The lineman sighed. "Roy, man, he's out."

Roy thought a moment, glancing again at his depleted supplies. He had Johnny's wound packed as well as he could, and the other cuts would need more thorough care than Roy could give him right now…what remained of the gauze, bandages, and Kerlix was pretty useless to him. But, maybe it could do Marco some good.

"Chet, Marco's hip could probably use a dressing. I've got what you'll need here, but do you think you can come get it? I can't leave Johnny right now. I still need to get his BP and check his vitals."

There was a longer pause and then, "Um, yeah…yeah, think so. Be there…in a minute."

Chet gave a grunt of effort that turned into a low, pained groan. He wobbled but stayed on his feet, his right arm quickly wrapping around his torso to brace his ribs. His first, halting step resulted in a sharp hiss, but he kept going.

Roy started cutting the sleeve of Johnny's turnout like he'd done with the others, but he divided his attention between Johnny and Chet as much as he could, trying to make sure that the Irishman really was up to the task he'd been assigned. Thankfully, he seemed to be. He was walking like an arthritic old man with a bad limp, but he was conscious and moving under his own power, and it was still a welcome sight.

He stopped as soon as he was within a few feet of Johnny, and he was close enough now that, this time, Roy saw him go stark white under the blood smeared across his face.

"He…he gonna be okay?"

His eyes were locked on Johnny's abdomen.

As a paramedic, Roy had been trained to keep victims as calm as possible, to always offer reassurance and remain as positive as he could. But even if Chet wasn't a paramedic himself, he'd seen enough as a fireman to know that any assurance Roy offered now would be empty…words he'd said only because that's what he was supposed to do.

He said them anyway.

"He'll be fine." Roy paused in his work on the sleeve long enough to pick up the supplies he'd promised and held them out to the lineman. "Here. This is all that's left until backup arrives."

Chet accepted the supplies with the hand that wasn't currently occupied bracing his ribs, and giving Johnny one last, long look, he turned around unsteadily and started the slow, painful trip back to Marco's side.

Roy had just gotten Johnny's arm free of the sleeve when the sounds of retching reached his ears. He immediately turned around to see that Chet was on the ground by Marco, braced on all fours, losing what little of the dinner he'd managed to get down before they'd been sent out.

"Chet?! Chet!"

Roy berated himself silently. He never should have asked Chet to move. He knew better. He started to push himself to his feet, wanting to check on the lineman, but Chet stopped him by raising a hand. He coughed once, twice, then struggled back up into a sitting position, holding his ribs once again and stretching his injured ankle out in front of him.

"I'm…okay," he insisted roughly. "Just…just a little sick. Had my…bell rung…pretty good, I guess. You stay…you stay with Johnny."

Roy would have felt better if Chet's voice hadn't sounded like he'd fought a five alarm fire without the benefit of an air mask, but the lineman was already reaching for the packaged supplies he must have dropped. Roy watched him for a moment, and when he was satisfied that Chet really was alright for now, he turned back to Johnny, reaching for the BP cuff and wrapping it around his partner's arm.

Johnny's numbers weren't quite as bad as he'd feared, but if Cap had been on the brink of going downhill when Roy had reached him, then Johnny had already started the trip down that same, slippery slope.

Pulse: 128, respirations: 34, BP: 94/59.

Roy wrote those numbers down with a hand that had suddenly developed another tremor. He ignored it, gritting his teeth and reaching for the clasps on his turnout, flicking them open and starting to tug off the coat. He'd been expecting the pain in his back, but it was his left arm that screamed the loudest this time, and he winced, stopping mid-motion to look at his bicep. There was a cut, almost three inches long, just above his elbow. The movement must have opened it again, because fresh rivulets of blood were making their way across his skin. He'd probably need stitches later, but there was nothing he could do about it now, so he kept going, pulling the coat off completely. He rolled it into a bundle, then very carefully lifted Johnny's legs, propping them up with the improvised cushion. Hopefully, that would help slow down the shock.

"Chet," Roy called, "how's Marco?"

"He's still out. Got the…got the bandages on him, though. Pulse…still okay. Breathing too."

Roy frowned. Chet sounded a little better than he had a few minutes ago, but not by much, and he couldn't help wondering if he was right about how Marco was doing. If the lineman was as dazed as he seemed, he could have easily missed something.

Roy glanced back at his partner.

He was hesitant to leave. Johnny's condition could change in an instant, and Roy needed to call Rampart soon and get permission to start an IV. There just hadn't been any time before now…just like there hadn't been any time to give LA the updates they'd wanted, not when every second counted because he'd had so many people to treat, and he'd had no way of knowing who was critical and who wasn't. Triage first. Prioritize. That's what he'd been trained to do in a casualty-heavy situation. Then again, there wasn't really any sort of training that could have prepared him for something like this.

He was still torn between checking on Marco and Chet or using the Biophone to contact Rampart, when the wail of sirens in the distance could finally be heard above the crackling flames still devouring the farmhouse.

Roy let his eyes close for a second in relief, then forced them open and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, deciding to look at Marco and Chet after all, now that backup was nearby. His vision grayed out for a moment, and he blinked hard, waiting until the world rematerialized to start making his way over to the injured linemen.

"Roy," Chet complained when he saw him, "thought I…told ya…to stay…with Johnny."

Roy almost shook his head in answer, but remembering what had happened when he stood up a minute ago, he figured that it was better if he didn't. "Help'll be here soon," he offered instead, kneeling down slowly, carefully. "I just want to make sure you two are okay."

It said a lot about how Chet was feeling that he didn't even try to argue.

Roy realized belatedly that he'd left the trauma box and Biophone next to Johnny, but thankfully, it didn't seem like he would need them. Marco looked terrible - his helmet was missing, and his face was covered in blood that ran down his neck and soaked into the collar of his turnout - but his pulse and respirations were almost the same as what Mike's had been, though Marco's breathing was a little faster. Chet seemed to have been right about where Marco had been hit by the shrapnel too. The metal shard - surrounded by gauze, thanks to Chet - appeared to have struck his hip and not his belly. Hopefully, that meant he didn't have any organ damage.

Chet…well, Chet looked almost as rough as Marco did. He had a long, thin gash across his forehead, a split lower lip, and a welt on his right cheek that promised to turn into a spectacular bruise in the near future. Chet's vitals, unsurprisingly, were a little bit better than Marco's, though a quick check of his pupils made it clear just why he sounded so disoriented.

Roy breathed another sigh of relief, scribbled down some quick notes about both linemen's numbers, then stood once more.

The world wavered again for a second, but it steadied just in time for him to make out the red lights of a squad heading up the worn dirt road.

Moments later, Squad 16 was pulling up in front of the burning farmhouse.

Bob Bellingham hopped out of the passenger side as soon as the vehicle came to a stop, and Craig Brice wasn't far behind him. This, Roy reflected blearily, might just be the happiest he'd ever been to see "The Walking Rulebook."

Still, it was Bellingham that Roy met halfway across the clearing. He was still clutching the pad of paper he'd used to record everyone's vitals, so he shoved it at the other paramedic without any fanfare and started rattling off what he knew.

"Everyone but Chet has been unconscious since the explosion. Mike was stable when I checked him, but he's got a lot of shrapnel in his back, and I'm not sure how deep it goes. Cap's lost a lot of blood…he's got a piece of shrapnel through his right shoulder and another piece in his left thigh."

"Okay," Bob nodded, "we'll-"

"Johnny has a piece of metal in the right upper quadrant. He's lost a lot of blood too. I packed the wound and elevated his feet. Marco has a shard of something in his hip-"

"Alright, Roy-"

"-and a probable broken nose, but his pulse and breathing weren't too bad. Chet woke up a few minutes ago, complaining of pain in his ribs and right ankle, and-"

"Roy!"

Roy blinked.

"Take it easy for a minute, okay? You can tell us more as soon as you sit down."

Roy wanted to say that he was fine and he didn't need to sit down, yet as Bob started gently but firmly guiding him over to Squad 16's running board, his muscles just didn't seem to have enough strength to resist.

He found himself sitting without really remembering when he'd done it, and he watched as other squads and ambulances pulled up to the scene.

Bellingham jogged over to the new arrivals with Roy's notes in his hand, and though Roy was too far away to hear what was said, he saw grim, understanding nods from the other men before they gathered their equipment and spread out to start treating the injured.

Brice was already working on Cap, and Greg from 18s had started on Mike, while his partner, Tony, was bent over Marco, palpating his abdomen. Todd from 86s was crouching next to Chet, asking him questions, and Charlie Dwyer, who normally worked the C-Shift at 51s, must have been doing overtime because he was the one leaning over Johnny now, getting a new set of vitals.

Bellingham reappeared at Roy's side, a stethoscope looped around his neck. He had obviously seen where Roy's gaze had stopped because he offered him a sympathetic smile.

"Johnny's in good hands, Roy. They all are. Anything else we need to know?"

Roy opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again.

Was there something else? Suddenly, he wasn't sure.

His gaze drifted over to the ruined farmhouse, and he saw that Engine 127 was there now, along with Truck 16, finally knocking the fire down. When had they arrived? And was that a chief's car?

Roy saw Bob frown.

"Tell ya what," the other paramedic began, "don't worry about it right now. Let's talk about you. How are you feeling?"

Roy blinked again. He hadn't really given much thought to himself. There just hadn't been time, but there was time now. The others…somebody else was taking care of them.

"I'm…uh… I have a cut on my arm, and uh…my back hurts some."

"Your back? Okay. What about your head? Did you hit it at all? Did you lose consciousness?"

"I…"

He had, hadn't he? He must have…he'd woken up looking at those stars…

"Yeah…yeah, think so…"

Bob said something else after that, but Roy didn't hear it, the pounding in his head suddenly surging to the forefront. The world grayed out again, like it had before, but instead of fading, the gray deepened into an inky black, and Roy felt himself falling, toppling forward off the running board.

Strong hands caught him just in time, and the last thing Roy was aware of was someone supporting his neck.

Then, for a while at least, there was nothing at all.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This fic is already complete, so the next part should be up in a few days. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a big thank-you to my fabulous beta, LaramieLady51, AKA Darth Mom. She was an enormous help with the chapter, and endured endless questions about medical practices and protocol. I also did quite a bit of research for this chapter as well, but I majored in English, rather than Medicine, so my apologies if anything is terribly inaccurate. :)
> 
> As always, I also thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

** The Last Man Standing  **

Chapter 2 

Time passed in a blur.

Roy drifted in and out of consciousness, and the part of his mind that was still processing things on some level put it down to a combination of the drugs they were giving him and his body's own demands for rest.

He knew that Joanne was sitting beside his bed as often as she could, and he was vaguely aware of Dixie and various other nurses coming and going. Dr. Brackett had tried to talk to him a couple times, and so had Dr. Early…even Dr. Morton once, but whatever they'd told him had gone over his head.

That small, lucid part of him was equal parts annoyed with, and grateful for, the hazy stupor that he found himself trapped in.

On one hand, he knew that something had happened…something bad, and even if he couldn't quite remember what that was, if he'd been more awake, he would have been asking questions and demanding updates.

On the other hand, he also knew that whatever had happened was bad enough that he dreaded the answers to the questions he wanted to ask. So, it was a weary part of his soul that welcomed the haze and wanted to cling to it for as long as he could, like a child who thought that if he just stayed hidden, safe and warm under the blankets, the monsters outside in the dark couldn't touch him.

Eventually, though, that haze began to lift, little by little, until at last, Roy woke to see the light of the afternoon sun filtering though the blinds in his hospital room. The blinds were closed, so the light was fairly dim, but it still made him grimace and squeeze his eyes shut. When the pain in his head finally retreated to a dull roar, he opened his eyes again, careful, this time, not to look directly at the windows.

He let his gaze drift around the room instead, automatically cataloguing the equipment he was attached to. He could feel the uncomfortable sensation of a nasal canula resting in his nostrils, and heard the beeping of a heart monitor. He felt the tug of an IV when he moved his arm, and when he shifted in the bed, he grimaced again - that was a catheter.

It was all familiar, both from his training as a paramedic and his own experiences when he'd been hurt on the job, but…what had happened this time?

He frowned, trying to remember.

The soft squeak of a shoe on the tile floor made him look up, and he watched as a white-clad nurse with dark, shoulder-length hair stepped into the room. She looked surprised when their eyes met, but then she smiled and walked closer to the bed.

"Hello, Mr. DeSoto. How are you feeling?"

Roy licked his dry lips. "I've-" He coughed, then winced as the movement seem to make every muscle in his back twinge sharply. "I've been better," he rasped.

The nurse's smile gained a sympathetic edge. She took his vitals quickly, including his temperature, then reached over to his bedside table where a pitcher of ice water sat next to an empty glass and a straw that was still sealed in its paper wrapping. She filled the glass halfway, then tore away the wrapping and dropped the straw into the glass, holding it out to Roy so he could sip from it.

The cool water felt like a balm on his parched throat, but he kept his sips small, not really sure how much his stomach could handle. Just that much movement had set off a faint sense of nausea.

When the nurse was sure that he'd had his fill, she set the glass back down on the table and started asking the standard questions for a neuro check: his full name, the year, where he was, and who was president. Remnants of that mental haze were still clinging to him stubbornly, but the nurse must have been satisfied with his answers because she smiled again and left to summon Dr. Brackett.

Roy watched her go, then let his head sink a little deeper into the pillow behind him.

He still wasn't sure what had happened, though he had the sense that he should _know_ , and that whatever was missing from his memories, it was important.

Sighing, he let his gaze drift around the room once more, his eyes stopping on the empty chair a short distance away. His brow furrowed. Joanne…Joanne had been there earlier, though how long, he wasn't sure. He hoped she'd left to get some rest, because she tended to push herself too hard when she was worried. It was easier when Johnny could trade shifts with her-

Roy's thoughts came to a screeching halt.

 _Johnny_.

Johnny. Mike. Cap. Chet. Marco.

Memories slotted back into place like pieces from a gruesome jigsaw puzzle.

… _A large, jagged piece of metal protruded from Johnny's abdomen, jutting a couple inches into the air…_

… _The back of Mike's coat was stained through with red, dark pieces of shrapnel sticking out of the wounds, casting strange shadows in the firelight…_

… _A small pool of blood was already seeping out from behind Cap's shoulder…_

… _Chet had a long, thin gash across his forehead, a split lower lip, and a welt on his right cheek that promised to turn into a spectacular bruise…_

… _Marco's face was covered in blood that ran down his neck and soaked into the collar of his turnout…_

Roy swallowed hard and closed his eyes, dimly aware that the beeping of the heart monitor had sped up. His hands curled around the starched sheet on his bed, and he drew a few deep breaths trying to force himself to think like a paramedic and not a friend…trying to distance himself the way he would have if it happened to someone else, and he'd been assigned to the rescue. But it hadn't happened to someone else, it had happened to _them_ , and he felt the same cold horror now that he'd felt when he'd woken up and realized that _none of them were moving_.

His eyes opened as soon as Dr. Brackett strode through the door, and Roy immediately started to push himself up from the bed. "Doc, Johnny…the others… How-?"

Brackett intercepted him, grasping his shoulders and gently pressing him back down. "They're all alive, Roy, and lucky to be that way."

_Alive. They're alive._

"But," the doctor continued, "before I tell you anything else, I need to examine you."

Roy opened his mouth to argue, but Brackett held up a hand.

"You have a serious concussion, one you probably exacerbated at the scene by moving around as much as you did, and you've been semi-conscious for the better part of three days."

"Three days?" Roy repeated, surprised.

Brackett nodded. "You have a lot of deep bruising in the lumbar region of your back, and it was causing some pretty severe muscles spasms, so we've had you under mild sedation to give your body a chance to heal. You also have a badly bruised kidney. Given the amount of blood we've seen in your urine, your kidney may even have suffered some minor lacerations, but the condition seems to be improving on its own, and I doubt that surgery will be necessary. Should I keep going?" Brackett folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows pointedly, but Roy could see the genuine worry reflected in his eyes.

Under normal circumstances, Roy might have appreciated the doctor's concern, but right now it was maddening. Still, knowing that the sooner he cooperated, the sooner he could get the answers he wanted, he offered no other resistance as Brackett repeated the neuro check the nurse had just done, then took his vitals a second time. When that was finished, Brackett took a penlight out of the pocket of his white lab coat, and Roy couldn't help flinching as Brackett flicked the light on and off, moving from one eye to the other.

Brackett gave him a sympathetic look as he slipped the light back into his pocket. "Your pupil reaction is still sluggish, though it's improved from what it was. See if you can follow my finger."

He held his index finger up, a short distance from Roy's face, slowly moving it back and forth and up and down. Roy followed it without moving his head.

"Tracking seems okay," Brackett added. "Alright, I need you to sit up now, but slowly…that's it."

Roy was suddenly grateful that Brackett had stopped him from sitting up before. The room wavered around him for a second and he swallowed hard. Even with the doc's help, he felt shaky and weak, and it only got worse when Brackett untied his hospital gown and began palpating his lower back. The pain that flared was surprisingly intense, and Roy couldn't help the hiss that escaped.

"Sorry, Roy," Brackett apologized. "I'll make this as quick as I can."

He was as good as his word, but by the time he was through with that part of the exam, Roy was gritting his teeth and he had a white-knuckle grip on the blankets pooled around his waist.

"That's it for the poking and prodding," Brackett said at last. "I just want to listen to your lungs and then you can lie back down. Deep breaths for me, in and out."

Roy did as he'd been asked, frowning when those deep breaths turned out to be more of a challenge than he'd expected.

Brackett wore a similar expression as he listened to Roy's lungs from the back and then the front. Finally, he stepped away, removing the stethoscope's ear pieces from his ears and looping the tubing around his neck.

"How do your lungs feel?" he asked, retying the gown and helping Roy to lie back down on the bed.

"A little congested," Roy answered honestly.

"They sound it, too. You and the others are all showing some evidence of fluid-build-up, possibly from some sort of chemical exposure."

That caught Roy's attention. "Chemical exposure?"

Brackett nodded. "The way it's presenting leads me to believe that it's not due to blast trauma. It's been relatively minor so far, but we're keeping a close eye on all of you anyway."

Roy was silent for a long moment.

That farmhouse had looked old enough that it probably hadn't been connected to any sort of gas main. A propane tank could have been hidden somewhere on the property, one with enough propane left to trigger an explosion…but then again, propane wouldn't cause the symptoms Brackett was describing.

Roy sighed. "Chemicals? That doesn't make any sense, Doc. It was an old farmhouse, not an industrial complex."

Brackett shook his head. "Believe me, Roy, I wish I had some answers to give you, but all the tests we've run so far have been negative, and the County is still investigating. In the meantime, we're focusing on preventative care. We're keeping all of you on oxygen and treating you with antibiotics, and you've all had tetanus boosters…given the debris we pulled out of each of you, we're not taking any chances."

Without really meaning to, Roy's gaze fell on the cut he remembered seeing on his left arm. It was covered by a 4x4 pad of a gauze now. Brackett followed his gaze, then reached for the gauze, gently prying up a corner of the tape that held it down and revealing a neat row of black stitches.

"Looks like it's healing pretty well," Brackett offered, pressing the gauze back into place.

Roy was surprised when the doctor reached for his head next, turning it a little. Roy winced, feeling something pull in his skin around his forehead and below his left eye.

Brackett noticed his reaction. "We put in five stitches by your hairline and another seven in your cheek."

Roy felt a tug as Brackett carefully peeled back the bandages there, scrutinizing the injuries. After a moment, he smoothed the tape back down and moved to the end of the bed.

"There's fourteen more in your left leg," Brackett added, pulling back the blankets from the side, uncovering the limb.

Roy stared down at it as Brackett drew back part of the dressing, exposing another line of those neat, black stitches, just below his knee.

"I…I never felt any of that," Roy admitted. "I only saw the cut on my arm when I took off my turnout."

Brackett gave him a sympathetic smile, pressed the gauze back into place, and recovered his leg with blankets. "Seems to me you had other things on your mind."

The doctor's words hit him like a jolt of cold water. This time, he would get answers. "Doc, how are-?"

Brackett didn't let him finish the question, but he didn't have to. The doc knew him well enough to know what he was after.

"Johnny was pretty shocky when he got here, and gave us a couple scares, but he held on long enough for us to get him stabilized and take him up to surgery. We had to remove about a quarter of his liver, but it's already showing signs of re-growth."

"Just his liver?" Roy pressed, his own stomach in knots. Abdominal trauma was dangerous - there was always so much that could go wrong. "It didn't…there wasn't anything else…?"

Brackett shook his head. "There was no other organ damage, and so far, there's been no sign of infection from the wound. His stomach, gallbladder, pancreas, and kidney function all look good. He's having a little more trouble with his lungs than you are, but we've been able to keep the edema in check. His other injuries needed some extensive debriding, and a few of them required some minor surgical intervention, but overall, they're healing well. Like you, he's suffering from a severe concussion, but there's no evidence of any intercranial swelling and his reflexes are normal. I think he'll be flirting with the nurses in no time."

Roy snorted softly, relief making him close his eyes for a moment. He opened them again, his smile fading as his attention shifted to the rest of the crew. "What about Mike?"

The engineer had seemed stable at the scene, but Roy knew how quickly that could change, and given where that shrapnel had been…

Brackett's expression sobered, and he shifted his stance, moving so that his hands rested on the bed rail he was standing next to. "Mike's a very lucky man," he began. "Joe did the surgery. Just a centimeter or two deeper and some of those shards in his back would have punctured his lungs."

Roy looked away for a moment, needing to collect his thoughts. He'd already guessed that Mike had probably had a close call, but hearing just _how close_ it had been was something else entirely.

"His lungs are alright, though?" Roy asked, finally turning back to the doctor.

"He's suffering from the same type of fluid build-up that you and the others have, but aside from that, his lung function is completely normal," Brackett assured. "His spine is intact as well. No sign of fracture."

Roy's eyes narrowed. He knew Brackett as well as Brackett knew him, and he could hear that there was something the doctor wasn't saying.

Brackett caught his look and sighed unhappily. "The damage from the shrapnel is causing a lot of swelling around his spinal column, and it's putting enough pressure on the nerves that he's lost some of the sensation in his legs."

Roy's stomach lurched, and this time, it didn't have anything to do with his concussion.

"But," Brackett continued with pointed emphasis, "we have every reason to believe that it's temporary. He's already showing signs of improvement. As soon as the swelling recedes, he should regain full mobility, and then he'll be able to work on getting his strength back. I won't sugar-coat it - it'll take some time, but overall, I'd say he stands a very good chance of making a complete recovery."

Roy released a breath, concern and relief battling for dominance, but eventually, relief won. Mike wasn't out of the woods yet, not by a long shot, but Brackett was never optimistic unless he had a reason to be.

He'd just have to focus on that.

"How's Cap?" he asked next.

He knew it was good news before Brackett even spoke because the doctor's smile returned.

"Well, once we got his blood volume back up, he stabilized pretty quickly. We debrided and sutured the laceration in his leg, and he's had surgery to repair the damage to his shoulder. He'll be looking at some extensive physical therapy, but with hard work, I'm confident he'll regain full range of motion."

Roy smiled, feeling like a weight had lifted off his _own_ shoulders, though that smile dimmed a little as he remembered Cap's missing helmet. He knew Cap had been wearing it when they reached the scene, so the explosion must have been strong enough to send it flying, and if it could do that, there was no telling what _else_ it might have done.

"How bad is his head injury?" he wondered. "It looked like he took a pretty hard hit."

"He did," Brackett agreed. "But to be fair, you _all_ did. The edema in your lungs isn't the only reason we've been keeping all of you in the ICU. You're all concussed, and we've been watching each of you closely for neurological complications. Hank was disoriented when he woke up, but he showed marked improvement over the course of the first day, and there's no evidence of any swelling or hematoma. We'll keep monitoring him, but right now, I have no reason to believe that he'll suffer long-term effects…or that any of you will."

In spite of the reassurance, Roy felt his expression darken. "What about Chet? He woke up at the scene, and I…I asked him to get up. I shouldn't have, but I…I wasn't thinking straight. Is he…?"

"He's doing well, Roy. Complaining of vertigo and nausea, but that's improving steadily, and I doubt that moving such a short distance worsened his condition. I've been more concerned about you on that front." Brackett huffed softly in amazement and shook his head. "I'll be honest, I don't know how you did it."

Roy glanced away. "I just did what I had to do."

It really was as simple as that. His friends had needed help, and there hadn't been anyone else. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and resisted the urge to shift on the bed, knowing that his back wouldn't appreciate it.

"How else is Chet doing?"

If Brackett understood the reason behind the subject change, he was polite enough not to comment on it. "He has a fractured right ankle, four cracked ribs, and some strained ligaments in his left shoulder. Beyond that, he has quite a lot of bruising on his torso. He mentioned that Marco had the lead on the hose they were using, and from the pattern of his injuries, it seems pretty likely that-"

"Marco was thrown into him," Roy guessed.

Brackett nodded. "Between the cracked ribs and the fluid build-up in his lungs, Chet is at a higher risk for developing pneumonia, but there's been no sign of it so far, and we're hopeful that the antibiotics will prevent it entirely. I don't expect any complications related to the fractures themselves - his ribs are stable and his ankle is splinted. We'll have him in a cast in a day or two, once the swelling goes down."

"What about Marco?"

"His condition is more serious than Chet's. He was unconscious for a few hours, and he's still complaining of double vision, but right now, his responses and reflexes all look good, and his x-rays are clear. He is showing signs of more fluid build-up in his lungs than you or any of the others, though, thankfully, it's still fairly mild. He also has a broken nose and some first degree facial burns."

"He was the closest to the house," Roy murmured.

"That's certainly consistent with his injuries. The piece of debris that struck his hip fractured the femoral head in two places, and it did some muscle damage as well. They were able to repair it in surgery, though, and we got a good report back from orthopedics. Like Hank and Mike, he's facing at a lot of physical therapy, but overall, and I think he stands an excellent chance of making a full recovery."

Roy didn't say anything for a long moment. He couldn't. This was just about the best outcome he could have hoped for…the outcome he hadn't thought they would get.

Brackett seemed to know what he was thinking, and offered him a reassuring smile. "Looks like you'll all be with us for a while, but it could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah," Roy agreed quietly. "Yeah, it could have."

He'd seen what an explosion could do to the human body.

The fact that they'd all survived the blast was incredible enough. Add to that the fact that each of them had a good prognosis…well, Roy had never considered himself to be very religious, but he knew that there was really only one word for it: miracle.

* * *

Roy slept more often than not.

He knew that it really was the best thing for him, but found that he was frustrated by it just the same. Five days after the accident, he was finally feeling better. He wasn't exactly fit to run a marathon - getting out of bed seemed like it was going to be a challenge - but his headache wasn't nearly as intense, the nausea no longer threatened to make an appearance every time he moved, and the muscle spasms in his back had mostly stopped.

Unfortunately, with the progress in his recovery came a sort of restless energy that he couldn't really put a name to. He wasn't usually the type to go stir-crazy - that was more Johnny's scene than his. Then again, maybe that was the problem…Johnny and the rest of the guys. Brackett had ruled out the possibility of him visiting anyone until he was a little stronger. Roy hadn't argued because, honestly, improved condition or not, the thought of being rolled through the hallways in a wheelchair was almost enough to make his recently-conquered nausea return.

Still, he couldn't deny that in spite of Brackett's assurances - and the regular updates Dix was giving him - he wasn't sure that he'd really be able to relax until he saw everybody for himself. Joanne must have known what was on his mind, because she'd offered to visit the guys in his place, and then she'd come back carrying messages from all of them. But, as much as he'd appreciated what his wife had done, it just wasn't the same, even if Johnny's _"Take care of yourself, pally,"_ and Cap's _"Get some rest - that's an order,"_ had brought a smile to his face.

Brackett had said they would talk about visiting again in a couple days, as long as his lungs were clear and his kidney function looked good. And, if Brackett was satisfied by his test results, then hopefully that meant he'd be on his way out of the ICU, though it would probably be at least another week before he was released from the hospital.

In the meantime…in the meantime, he was stuck laying in bed, trying to decide if he should fight the urge to sleep some more, or just give in and close his eyes.

Closing his eyes had almost won when a noise from the front of his room made him look up.

There, standing at the doorway, in his dress uniform with his white cap held loosely in his hands, was Chief McConnike. Roy automatically tried to sit up straighter in the bed, but McConnike waved away the formality.

"At ease, DeSoto. I'm sorry for disturbing you."

"It's no problem, Chief," Roy assured, though he couldn't stop the puzzled frown that crossed his features.

Joanne had told him that the Battalion Chief had been at the hospital after the explosion, waiting for word on their conditions, but this was the first time that Roy had seen him personally. And, given the uniform, he figured that this was an official visit, and not just a friendly check-in.

McConnike confirmed that a moment later, walking across the room in a few quick strides and stopping beside Roy's bed. "DeSoto," he began, "I'm here because I wanted to tell you - and every member of your shift - in-person, that we now know the cause of the explosion."

Roy blinked, stunned, and he found himself fighting the sudden desire to sit up again. Brackett had said they were investigating, but he hadn't expected an answer so soon. "What was it?"

"Pesticides."

Roy didn't speak for a moment as that sunk in.

"Pesticides?" he repeated finally.

McConnike nodded. "Seems the owner of a nearby farm disagreed with the EPA regulations that were put in place a few years ago. Apparently, he thought that registering the pesticides he had and getting official approval for their use would be too much trouble. So, he got around the regulations by buying small quantities of pesticides second-hand and storing them on that abandoned property."

Roy shook his head in disbelief - the things people did to get around an "inconvenient" law never ceased to amaze him. "I guess he wasn't expecting a fire. Do we know what started it in the first place?"

McConnike nodded again, his lips set in an unhappy line. "The man smokes. He'd just dropped off a load of pesticides earlier in the day, then had a smoke out on the porch before he left."

Roy's shoulder's slumped and he sunk a little deeper into the pillow behind him.

Old, dry wood. Smoldering ashes. It was a disaster waiting to happen. But that man had probably smoked on the porch a dozen times before and thought nothing of it.

"He turned himself in to the police yesterday," McConnike continued. "He saw the news about the fire and put two and two together. He insists that he never meant for anyone to get hurt, and says he didn't realize that the pesticides he was using had explosive properties. We're just lucky that he was hoarding herbicides, not insecticides."

Roy grimaced. The fumes from insecticides tended to be more hazardous, and he didn't want to imagine what they would have had to deal with in that sort of scenario. The reality they'd faced was bad enough.

As if reading his thoughts, McConnike sighed. "The case is probably headed for a plea bargain, but I wanted to assure you men that the Department is still going to push for the harshest possible legal penalties. Those regulations were put in place for a reason, and we want to send a strong message to the public."

"That's good to know, sir."

And it was. Roy figured that farmer really _hadn't_ meant for anyone to get hurt, but that didn't change what had happened. He'd made a bad choice, and it had nearly cost all of Roy's friends their lives.

The Battalion Chief offered him a smile. "Well," he said, putting on his dress cap and adjusting the brim, "I'd better finish makin' the rounds. I just saw Hank, and considering what you did, DeSoto, I thought you deserved to hear the news before I told the others. But, I promised the Docs I wouldn't make a nuisance of myself, so I'll let you get some rest."

"Thanks, Chief."

"You're welcome." McConnike turned and started for the door, then paused. "Oh, and Desoto?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Good work out there."

Roy tried not to let any of his unease show. "Thank you, sir."

McConnike smiled again, reaching up to touch his brim, giving a small tip of his cap, and then he was gone.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on various subjects mentioned above. (I'm sorry they're so long, but I hope you find this information as interesting as I did. :) )
> 
> 1\. Dr. Brackett doesn't mention an MRI or CT scans because they weren't yet in common use at the time. The first MRI body scan of a human being was on July 3, 1977, and CT scanners weren't widely available until about 1980.
> 
> 2\. You cannot live without a liver, but you can live with only part of your liver. In fact, you can survive even if up to 75% of your liver is removed. The liver is also the only organ that can regenerate itself. Most of the regeneration occurs over the first two weeks after surgery.
> 
> 3\. A number of pesticides are actually flammable or potentially explosive. Currently, they come with warnings instructing consumers to keep them away from an open flame, but in the 1970s, the regulation of pesticides was just beginning.
> 
> 4\. The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) was first established in 1970. The "new regulations," McConnike mentions were part of the "Federal Insecticide, Fungicide and Rodenticide Act," or "FIFRA." Originally, the law was meant to protect farmers from low quality pesticides, but in 1972, it was changed to "protect public health and the environment." In accordance with these new standards, "All pesticides had to be registered and evaluated by the new EPA, and they were approved only if they would not cause 'unreasonable adverse effects on the environment.'" (From an article titled "Farming 1970s to Today.")
> 
> 5\. Insecticides do tend to be more hazardous to humans than herbicides. In fact, "Organophosphate insecticides originated from compounds developed as nerve gases by Germany during World War II." Modern insecticides aren't generally quite as toxic, though they can still be dangerous. (From Encyclopedia - dot - com).
> 
> 6\. Different pesticides have different properties, and these can vary greatly, with some being more or less toxic than others, while others are more explosive or more flammable. Facilities where pesticides are kept are now required to post warning signs using the "National Fire Protection Association (NFPA) Hazard Identification System," as means of assisting emergency response personnel (From an article entitled "Pesticide Fires").
> 
> The last part of the fic should be up in another few days. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another big thank-you to my fabulous beta, LaramieLady51, AKA Darth Mom. She's working on a Emergency multi-chapter of her own right now, and I have the honor of beta-ing for her in return. She will post it on FF.N when she's finished, and I hope you'll keep a eye out for it! It's an awesome story. :D

** The Last Man Standing  **

Chapter 3 

It was beautiful day. The sky was a bright blue, not a cloud in sight, and a faint breeze stirred the air, just enough to keep everyone comfortable.

Roy turned his face up to the sky for a moment, enjoying the way that the warmth of the sun soaked into his skin. It was especially welcome after spending four weeks mostly indoors, either at the hospital or at home.

Obviously, he wasn't the only one who felt that way. From his place standing at the railing of Captain Stanley's back deck, he had a perfect view of the others who were all lounging on the available deck chairs, with the exception of Cap, who was still inside with his wife, helping her get lunch ready, and Mike, who was seated in a wheelchair.

Roy's eyes lingered on the engineer for a moment.

It was still a little disconcerting to see Mike sitting in that chair, even knowing that he would probably be out of it in about a week. He'd regained the feeling in his legs pretty quickly, but the muscle damage itself was taking longer to heal than Brackett had hoped, and the docs didn't want to risk having him re-aggravate the injury by doing too much too soon. So, for now, Mike had been told to use the wheelchair as much as possible, and to keep standing and walking to a bare minimum. His brother had come down from San Francisco to help him until he could manage on his own again, and it was his brother who'd dropped him off at Cap's place. The older Stoker had stayed just long enough to say hello to everyone and then left again, joking that he knew it was a private party - though Roy couldn't help thinking that Mike's brother wasn't actually that far off.

They hadn't planned it that way…not really. But, maybe their families knew them better than they knew themselves, because as soon has he'd told Joanne that Cap had invited the guys over to his place for lunch, she'd just smiled, told him to have a good time, and offered to make a batch of brownies. None of Marco's numerous relatives had decided to make an appearance either, though his mother had sent along some enchiladas, and the Kelly clan was missing as well, though Chet's sister had made a fruit salad. Even Hank's teenage daughters had decided not to join them, and Roy suspected that Emily Stanley would follow their example, leaving the guys to their own devices as soon as she had lunch on the table.

Roy had to admit that he was grateful for it. Between hospital stays, doctors' appointments, physical therapy, and as of a week ago in Roy's case, desk duty at Headquarters - they really hadn't seen that much of each other. Not as a group, anyway, and it was good to have all the guys together again. It felt right. Normal. And Roy figured they could probably all use that. He knew that he could.

Pushing himself away from the deck railing, Roy walked over to the loose circle of deck chairs and sat down beside Johnny. He let his gaze drift to his partner without a thought, automatically checking him over. There were still faint red lines marking Johnny's face and neck from where the shrapnel had struck him, but they promised to fade with time. He was a little pale, too, and anybody who knew him well enough would have been able to tell that he was still favoring his right side, but overall, he was doing well. In fact, he was set to start desk duty himself in a week or so.

Roy knew that Johnny had probably sensed his scrutiny, but his partner had a lot of practice ignoring his "mother-hen tendencies" as he'd called them, and that's what he did now, keeping his attention on Chet who was busy talking about a visit he'd gotten from some of the members of his old crew back at 8s in West Hollywood. They'd heard about the explosion - between the news coverage and the ever-reliable firehouse grapevine, pretty much everybody had - and they had wanted to wish him well.

"And Mort," Chet was saying, "he's been out of 14s the last couple years - he asked me what it was like, and I told him, 'Well, it was a lot like bowling, except we were the pins.'"

"Yeah," Marco agreed, rolling his eyes. "I guess that means somebody got a strike."

"Then Jerry - he's over at 27s now - wanted to know why I couldn't give them more details, and I said, 'Man, it felt like I got hit with a sledge hammer. I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders.'"

"Do you ever?" Johnny asked, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, very funny, Gage."

"I thought so."

"You would."

Roy bit back a smile of his own and glanced up to see that Mike looked just as amused, and Marco was smirking.

The Hispanic lineman certainly looked a lot better. The first degree burns had healed, but Roy could still see the faint shadow of the bruise from his broken nose. It was much lighter than it had been, though - his face had been some pretty spectacular shades of black and blue early on. ("You should see the other guy," had become Marco's favorite response whenever somebody asked him what had happened.) Like Mike, he'd been forced to use a wheelchair for a few weeks while his hip healed, but he'd recently been cleared to use a walker instead. It sat beside his chair now.

Chet had started talking again, but Roy purposefully tuned him out, something he'd gotten fairly good at after sharing a hospital room with him a few years ago, when Chet had broken his shoulder on a rescue and Roy had needed another tonsillectomy. It was a hard-won skill, but a useful one at times like these. He found himself studying the Irishman instead. The cuts and bruises on his face had all healed, and his ribs didn't seem to be causing him any trouble. If it weren't for the cast still covering his right ankle, and the crutches propped up behind his chair, Roy would have thought that he was close to being one-hundred percent. But, Roy knew that Chet was still having headaches on and off, and they'd been pretty persistent. Brackett had been concerned enough to postpone Chet's light duty up at Headquarters for another week.

Roy couldn't help wondering if asking Chet to move at the scene had anything to do with that, but when he'd tried to talk to Chet about it, Chet had waved the apology away…just like he'd waved away Roy's gratitude when he'd thanked him for what he'd done that night. Instead, the Irishman had insisted that he'd been too out of it at the time to have done much good by himself.

" _Sure, if it'd been me, maybe I coulda called for help, but treating everybody? It took me a full minute just to remember that I had to take those bandages out of the plastic wrap before I stuck 'em on Marco. Without you, Johnny, Cap, and Mike woulda been a whole lot worse off."_

Roy didn't really like to think about that…just like he didn't want to think about the fact that there was talk of an official commendation. McConnike had mentioned it when he'd stopped by to discuss the upcoming court hearings. He'd brought pictures with him…pictures of the engine and the squad before they'd been repaired. The windows on both vehicles had been shattered, and the sides facing the farmhouse had been peppered with small pieces of shrapnel, a testament to just how bad the explosion had been…and just how lucky they actually were.

They'd been fortunate in another way, too: the herbicide had qualified as only "mildly toxic," and it must have burned off pretty quickly, because none of the other first responders had developed the fluid build-up that they had. Thankfully, the crew of A-Shift had all recovered from the exposure in a relatively short timeframe. Roy's own lungs had cleared up after about a week, though a couple of the guys - Marco and Chet in particular - had needed a few more days to make it through the worst of it.

The sound of the screen door sliding open brought Roy's thoughts - and Chet's conversation with the others - to a halt.

"Alright, everybody," Cap announced, "Em says that lunch is ready. We're all set up in the dining room."

Johnny was the first out of his chair, and Roy had to smile a little. One thing was for sure: the accident definitely hadn't hurt his partner's appetite.

Marco and Chet were slower, Marco leaning on his walker as he pulled himself up into a standing position, and Chet reaching for the crutches behind him.

Roy stood as well, enjoying the fact that his back no longer twinged when he moved. He was still plagued by the occasional headache, but they were becoming fewer and farther between, and Brackett was confident that they would soon disappear altogether. Just a week or two more of light duty, and then he'd finally be back on the A-Shift. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too long before the others would be able to join him.

Walking over to Mike, Roy bent down to release the brakes on his wheelchair and then gripped the handles as he started pushing the engineer towards the door. He caught sight of the back of the wheelchair and had to shake his head. At some point over the last few days, Chet had cut out a picture of a fire engine from a magazine and taped it to the chair. Beneath the picture, in Chet's messy scrawl, were the words, "Little Red." Roy wasn't sure what Mike actually thought about Chet's joke, but maybe the fact that he hadn't bothered taking it off of the chair said it best. Still, Roy wondered if "The Phantom" might find himself regretting it later, once Mike was back on his feet. It was always the quiet ones, after all.

Marco had reached the door first, Chet just on his heels, and Roy paused behind them with Mike, waiting for Marco to maneuver the walker over the slightly raised doorstep.

"Come on, hurry it up, Grandpa," Chet complained.

Marco turned around to glare at him. "You're not exactly Speedy Gonzales right now either, Chet."

"You wanna bet? I've gotten pretty comfortable with these things." He motioned with a crutch to demonstrate.

Marco scoffed. "That's not what I've heard. What was it Dwyer told me yesterday…something about a visit to Headquarters and an incident with some steps…?"

"Slander, pal. Pure slander. I'm poetry in motion."

"Poetry?" Marco's lips twitched. "Sure, a limerick maybe."

Chet sputtered indignantly, and their argument continued, all while they were both still blocking the doorway. Roy would have minded it more if it wasn't so obvious that Chet and Marco were enjoying themselves.

Mike didn't seem to mind it either, but his tone was wry when he said, "I guess 'Little Red' needs an air horn."

Roy snorted at that. "Don't give Chet any ideas."

"You fellas planning on joining us any time soon?" Cap called, his voice drifting out from the house.

The question effectively ended the linemen's debate, and Marco and Chet made it through the door at last, Roy and Mike following behind them.

The dining room was right next to the kitchen, just a short distance from the porch. The room was curved on one side, with a large bank of windows facing the Stanleys' back yard, offering almost the same view they had from the deck. Cap's wife had decorated those windows with flowing white and yellow-gold curtains that complimented the gold carpet. A hutch rested along one wall, but it was the large, mahogany dining table that was the obvious centerpiece of the room.

Roy didn't have to guess where Mike would sit - a space had already been cleared to make room for his wheelchair - so he got the engineer situated, then bent down to set the wheelchair's brakes again, waving away Mike's quiet word of thanks.

He made his way over to his own seat, once again taking the chair beside Johnny, and he found himself staring at the food-laden table. Emily Stanley really had outdone herself. Roy almost wondered if this lunch was actually a ploy to help them gain back the weight they had all lost over the last few weeks. It would give them a good start in any case.

Anita Lopez's enchiladas were laid out on a platter, and the fruit salad Chet's sister had made was in a glass bowl. But, next to that were cold cuts, slices of cheese, a plate of vegetables, and rolls to make sub sandwiches. Potato salad, coleslaw, and a pot of some kind of soup rounded off the meal, along with a single-layer cake and a plate of Joanne's brownies which were obviously meant to serve as dessert.

Emily bustled around the room as soon as they were seated, making sure everyone was comfortable and had whatever they wanted to drink. When she was finished, she stopped beside Cap and bent down to kiss his cheek, whispering something in his ear that made him smile. She stood up with a smile of her own, wished them a good lunch, and then left without another word.

Chatter started up almost right away, but Cap cleared his throat and stood, and everyone immediately fell silent. Roy's eyes automatically landed on the sling Cap wore, the one keeping his right arm cradled against his chest. Like Johnny, faint red lines marred his features, and he still had a slight limp when he walked, but both were fading as time passed, and if all went well, it wouldn't be too much longer until he'd be able to lose the sling as well.

"Before we get started," the Captain began, "there's something we need to do. Roy, I hear you're up for a commendation, and as far as I'm concerned, you certainly deserve it. But no matter what happens there, well…I know you probably don't want me to make a big deal of this, but some of us might not be here right now if it weren't for you. So, on behalf of all of us, I just wanna say thank you."

There were murmurs of agreement from around the table, and Roy looked down at his lap, biting his lip. Chet wasn't the only one he'd talked to about that night…all of the guys had found a way to thank him on their own over the last few weeks. He hadn't known what to say to them then, and he didn't know what to say to them now.

"Gentleman," Cap prompted.

Roy glanced up again to see that he had raised his glass of lemonade with his uninjured arm, silently calling for a toast.

"Aw, Cap," Chet complained, "we can't toast him now - we don't have the right stuff to toast him with! We need champagne or something."

Cap gave an exasperated sigh. "Just do it, ya twit."

Chet obediently picked up his own iced tea, then leaned over to Johnny, frowning. "Milk? Really? You're toasting him with milk?"

"Shut up, Chet," Johnny retorted.

The argument was enough to make Roy smile, and he relaxed, though his throat went dry a second later as Cap raised his glass a little higher. "With our gratitude to the last man standing."

"To the last man standing," the others echoed, raising their own glasses.

Roy ducked his head and resisted the urge to fidget in his chair as they all took a drink. Cap reclaimed his seat, and a moment of silence followed. Roy looked up again to find that they were all watching him, obviously expecting him to say something.

"I uh…" He reached up a hand to rub the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. "Thank you for doing that. It means a lot. But I…I don't think I did anything that special. It's just the way things worked out. All of you would have done the same thing in my place."

He saw a few somber nods, and knew that each of them was probably trying to imagine what it might have been like, what he might have felt. He didn't really want them to, though - he hoped they'd never have to be in that position. He wouldn't have wished it on anyone.

"Just don't make me do it again."

Roy hadn't actually meant to blurt that last part out, and the words hung in the air for a few seconds before Johnny smiled wryly.

"Tell ya what, partner - how 'bout you don't make any of us return the favor and we'll call it even?" he suggested.

Everyone laughed, and Roy couldn't help but join them, feeling something uncoil inside of him at last.

"You've got yourselves a deal."

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on the type of poetry Marco mentions: a limerick is a short, five-line poem that is very often humorous. They're considered to be part of "nonsense literature."
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, and especially those who have reviewed. I hope you've enjoyed this last chapter, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


End file.
